


I'll Take Anything You Want To Give Me

by burglarbilbo



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglarbilbo/pseuds/burglarbilbo
Summary: five years after breaking up with jaskier on that mountaintop, geralt runs into the bard again, this time injured and clinging to life.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 255





	I'll Take Anything You Want To Give Me

The last person Geralt expects to see as he’s slaying a garkain is Jaskier. He barely recognizes the bard, injured, bloody, and clinging to consciousness. Covered in dirt and garkain viscera, Geralt rushes over to Jaskier and checks his pulse. It’s faint, but it’s still there, thank the gods. 

Geralt gently places a hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck, tilts his head up. Jaskier’s eye flutters open, the other too swollen to do so. He’s delirious, his pupils are blown wide, and as soon as he sees Geralt he starts babbling. 

“Geralt… N-no, no, no, no, no,” he mumbles. “You left…. months ‘go. Can’t be…” 

With a sigh, Jaskier falls unconscious. Geralt hopes Triss is still at the inn he’s staying at. He slips his arms under Jaskier and picks him up, careful to be mindful of his numerous injuries as he holds him close. It’s the first time he lets Jaskier ride on Roach in front of him. 

Triss gasps at the state of the bard when Geralt brings Jaskier back to the inn. His clothes are torn to shreds, completely unsalvageable — the once-bright silver fabric stained and splattered with blood and dirt, drying to similar shades of brown. Geralt frowns, remembering how much Jaskier loves his clothing. He silently makes a mental note of Jaskier’s proportions as he helps Triss tear and cut away Jaskier’s clothing so they can tend to his wounds. 

“I need much more supplies than what I have here,” Triss says, brushing stray strands of hair away from Jaskier’s damp forehead. She goes to rummage in her bag of herbal remedies and various potions, pulling out a handful of tiny bottles and a mortar and pestle.

Geralt grunts. “Tell me what you need.” 

He goes into town, finds an apothecary that has what Triss needs, and on his way back to the inn — rushing— Geralt pauses at the sight of a tailor’s shop. The glint of shiny teal silk in the sunlight catches his eye; the same shade that Jaskier wore when they first met in Posada.   
Geralt steps inside. 

Jaskier is looking better by the end of the day. Color is returning to his once-pallid skin, his wounds are beginning to close and heal slowly — the biggest being a slash from his left shoulder blade to the front of his chest and nearly down to his stomach. The swelling in his eye has gone down and once Triss and Geralt wipe all the blood and dirt and debris away, he looks almost like he’s sleeping. 

“Where’s his lute?” Triss asks, washing her hands in the basin on the dresser. Geralt sits off to the side of the room, with a proper view of Jaskier sleeping in his bed as well as the door. 

“Hmm?” 

“Jaskier’s lute. It wasn’t with him when you found him?” 

“No,” Geralt says. “It was just him.” 

Triss hums quietly. She sits down next to Geralt, smooths her hands over her dress. The fire crackles to their left, growing brighter as the sun continues to set. “I first saw Jaskier here before you came to town,” she remarks. 

Geralt says nothing. He’s watching the gentle rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest as he sleeps. Triss continues, as Geralt suspected she would. 

“The man goes nowhere without his lute, yet something tells me it isn’t in the garkain’s lair, broken.”   
Geralt turns to face her. “What are you trying to tell me, Triss?” 

“I’m sure Jaskier would like to play it when he’s up and awake. You should find his room and bring it back.” 

Geralt looks back to Jaskier, then to Triss again, but when he tries to catch her eye, she’s no longer looking, instead writing in a notebook of parchment. Geralt contemplates his options; Triss knows he hates sitting idle, presumably why she suggested he do something. 

“Hmm,” he grunts as he rises. 

The innkeeper tells Geralt that Jaskier is staying in room 207, just a few down the hall from Triss’ and his rooms. Geralt jimmies the lock open, more delicately than he’s used to, and when the door swings open he sees Filavandrel’s beautiful lute leaning against a table leg. Jaskier’s room is neater than Geralt expected from the bard. Though, Geralt realizes, he’s only ever stayed with Jaskier with both of them sharing a room. He supposes that of the two of them he is the messy one. 

Geralt brings Jaskier’s lute back to his room. Triss is dozing off in her chair, facing the dying fire, notebook teetering in her lap. Geralt takes her book, closes it, puts it on the little table, and covers her with her cloak. He pulls a chair over by the bed and decides to let himself catch a few winks of sleep, the lute resting in his lap the whole time. 

When Geralt wakes the next morning, Jaskier is already awake. Triss is gone, Geralt assumes on her own business. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, plainly. He pushes himself to a sitting position with much pain and effort, Geralt hears him gritting his teeth, hears his heart quicken. 

“Jaskier,” he says. “You’re… healing.” 

“Thanks to Triss,” Jaskier says. He looks away, hands fiddling with the hem of the blanket pooling around his waist. A beat of silence settles around them. Geralt feels an uncharacteristic need to break it. 

“It’s… been a while, Jaskier.” 

“Close to five years, Geralt.” Jaskier rubs absently at the bandages across his chest and abdomen and looks Geralt in the eye. There’s an obvious hurt and Geralt can’t help but feel bad. He remembers what happened, what he said to Jaskier on that mountaintop all over again. 

“I…” Geralt starts. “I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Jaskier scoffs. 

“What the fuck happened?” Geralt says. “Why were you in that garkain’s lair?” 

Jaskier leans forward with a pained grunt. “ _Fuck… you_ , Geralt. You have no right to ask me those questions, not anymore. I’m just a person you rescued, nothing more, nothing less.” 

It stings more than Geralt thought he could feel to hear Jaskier say that. Geralt stands, placing Jaskier’s lute gently by his feet, and starts toward the door. With his hand on the knob, Geralt stops. He turns to look over his shoulder to see Jaskier tuning the lute. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier looks up, eyebrows knitted together. 

“Jaskier, I am sorry for how I treated you all those years ago.” Geralt turns to face him directly, letting go of the door knob. His gaze softens and seeing Jaskier look at him with a soft confusion — his anger slowly, very slowly, melting away — makes Geralt’s own heart flutter. 

“Geralt…” Jaskier starts. “Where the fuck are my clothes? And the rest of my things?” 

“Er… they were torn to shreds when I found you. Unsalvageable, I’m afraid.” 

“Fuck…”

“I…” Geralt clears his throat. “I got you new ones. At the tailor.” 

Jaskier’s face hardens again. “You know you can’t just buy back my... companionship, Geralt.” His jaw is set and he clutches the lute almost defensively to his chest. 

“I’m not trying to.” Geralt shakes his head. “I’m just trying to do something nice for a former… traveling companion and… friend.” Geralt didn’t expect his voice to soften as much as it does as he speaks. But seeing Jaskier now — awake, alive, healing — it sends something through Geralt that he hasn’t ever felt before. 

“You saw us as friends?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt hears his heart start to beat a bit faster. 

“Not… at first…” 

Jaskier lets out a small laugh, looking down into his lap. Geralt lets himself smile, just barely. He returns to his seat next to the bed. 

“I kept writing songs about you, you know,” Jaskier says, plucking at a few strings on his lute. 

“Why?” Geralt grunts. “After everything…” 

Jaskier shrugs. He keeps his gaze low. 

“Even though I could no longer call you a friend, a muse is a much harder thing to break up with,” he says. 

Geralt opens his mouth to say something more but he swallows his words as the door opens and Triss walks in. 

Triss directs Geralt as the two of them change and wash Jaskier’s bandages. 

“You’re healing extraordinarily fast, Jaskier,” Triss says. Her gentle, cool fingers press an herbal salve to the edges of Jaskier’s wounds. 

Jaskier lets out a pained laugh. “Must be my charming good looks.”

Geralt stays quiet as he holds Jaskier steady, a big hand at the center of his back and chest each, keeping the bard balanced in a sitting position. As Triss applies the last of the salve to the deepest part of his wound, by his shoulder blade, Jaskier gasps and his hand comes up to rest over Geralt’s on his chest. Almost instinctively, Geralt holds him tighter. 

“There,” Triss says. She wipes her fingers off on part of her frock. “Alright now, Geralt, grab those bandages…” 

Geralt lays Jaskier back down once he’s re-bandaged and he can’t help but run his fingers through Jaskier’s soft brown hair as he places the bard’s head back onto his pillows. Jaskier looks up at him with an almost-smile on his face. 

That night, Geralt tells Triss to go to bed. He’ll watch over Jaskier, he tells her. The witcher falls into an easy slumber to the sound of Jaskier’s steady heartbeat. 

The tailor’s opens earlier than Geralt expected. He goes to him before Jaskier has woken up, planning to surprise Jaskier with the new garments. The clothes are beautiful, even to Geralt. The silk is so fine and soft, woven to be strong and protective. Jaskier isn’t one to wear armor, but Geralt knows he needs the protection. 

The doublet is a deep teal, tinged with gold thread accents at the sleeves and the collar. Delicate red flowers are embroidered at the seam lines of the chest. The linen shirt, Geralt notices as he walks back to the inn, is not a plain white but a subtly dyed light blue, only visible in direct light. 

Geralt passes Triss at the market. She gives him a smile, waving a head of lettuce by way of greeting. Geralt smirks back at her. When he gets back, Jaskier is blinking awake. 

“‘m hungry,” Jaskier mumbles, yawning as he sits up. 

“Don’t think you can eat these,” Geralt says, tossing the clothes into Jaskier’s lap. 

Jaskier startles, looks at the clothing, then to Geralt, then back to the clothes, all the while not touching the garments at all. 

“They’re yours,” Geralt says, as if it couldn’t be more obvious. 

“I see that,” Jaskier says, tentatively unfolding the shirt and doublet. “Geralt…” Jaskier holds the teal silk doublet up almost reverently. He stares at it and looks up at Geralt with watery eyes. “God, It's beautiful. Help me put it on?” 

Geralt changes Jaskier’s bandages first, making note of how quickly his wounds are healing. Jaskier is able to stand with little help — the cut on his left thigh is mostly closed up, but still deep, so he still leans heavily to his right side. As Geralt helps the bard into the new pants, he quite enjoys the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on him; his fingers are calloused from playing the lute, but his palms are soft and so warm. 

Jaskier sits down for the linen shirt and doublet. Geralt make sure to be mindful of the slice on his chest and back as he pulls the fabric over Jaskier’s head and arms. He feels how soft Jaskier’s skin is, again, covered in soft chest hair. Geralt has half a mind to kiss him, right over Jaskier’s heart. Once the doublet is on, Geralt helps Jaskier stand once more and the bard strikes a pose with his lute. Geralt smiles, he can't help himself, it almost feels instinctive.

“Well?” Jaskier says. “How do I look?” 

“As enchanting as the songs played on your lute,” Geralt says. He isn’t sure what compelled him to say something both so poetic and so honest, but Jaskier’s smile, as reluctantly as it appears on his face, is worth it, Geralt realizes. 

“That was uncharacteristically smooth, witcher,” Jaskier says. He carefully sits himself back down on the edge of the bed. 

“These are unusual circumstances, bard,” Geralt says. He leans against the wall, still a few steps away from the bed, almost overly mindful of his proximity to Jaskier. 

Jaskier smiles, then lets it fade away, their conversation quietly pittering out. Geralt wants to say something, he can feel words rising from the back of his throat, but nothing comes out. Part of him wants to leave, he could just walk right through the door, gather his things, and leave and never see Jaskier again — like he planned to five years ago. But as Jaskier begins to pluck at his lute, mumbling half-formed lyrics, something compels Geralt to stay. Perhaps it’s the familiarity of the situation, of seeing and hearing Jaskier begin to compose a song, and simply sharing a space with the bard that makes Geralt smile. He had never expected to miss this. 

“You’re smiling,” Jaskier says, looking up from his lute. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, rolling his eyes. He wants to say more but swallows it at the sight of Jaskier smiling as he looks at him. Jaskier continues on the lute and Geralt takes his seat by the bed once more. His knees brush against the bard’s and at the small motion, Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat quicken. 

“Come with me,” Geralt says, before he can stop himself. 

Jaskier startles, almost breaking a string. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

“Now you want me with you? Geralt…” 

“You… are a worthy travel companion, Jaskier,” Geralt says. He reaches for Jaskier, settling with placing his hand on Jaskier’s knee. “Come with me, when I leave. When you’re healed.” 

Jaskier looks at him, eyebrows knitted together. His heart rate stays elevated, Geralt notices. But still Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He reaches for Geralt, but doesn’t touch him, his hand lingers right over Geralt’s on his knee. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, finally. “What if… I don’t want to go with you…?” 

Geralt almost startles. Something in his stomach drops and he stops himself from yanking his hand back from Jaskier’s knee, instead he grips it harder. “I —” 

“You hurt me, Geralt. And I don't know how long it might take to forgive you,” Jaskier says. He sets down his lute at the foot of the bed. 

“Jaskier..." 

"Hang on, hang on, let me finish!" Jaskier says, holding up a finger. He reaches for Geralt's hand again and holds it in both of his over Geralt's knee. "I won't heal as fast as you. I can't come with you right away. But... I do... miss the adventure, and the free ale, and Roach, what a beauty. And, er, I suppose I do miss you." 

Geralt can't stop the smile that makes its way to his face. "I'll wait. For you to heal," he says. 

"Thank you, Geralt." 

\--

**Author's Note:**

> The only research I did for this was google "witcher monsters" and fucked around on The Witcher's wiki until I found something. The title is from the Mitski song Old Friend. I hope y'all liked this!! Feel free to leave a comment if you did!!


End file.
